3 May 2004

Ferret racing and Scottish jigs at the harvest fair

The first weekend after we bought our little French car last fall we could hardly wait to go on an adventure.

The sun was bright. The breeze was cool, and the gas tank was full -- even though it cost about $75 to fill it up. It's a good thing it gets 50 miles to the gallon, or so we were promised.

Off we drove to the Great Bentley Harvest Fair. While the weather is good in the spring and fall, these types of fairs are everywhere. They are similar to our county fairs in the U.S.

We drove south, and the first sign we passed said there was a "boot" sale ahead. Our car seemed to automatically turn in. We paid our 50 pence (25 cents) to park, and for the next hour we walked from table to table and car trunk (the boot) to car trunk looking at every item.

There were old and new tools, and loads of used clothing. People were selling garden plants from the back of their cars and fresh produce. Books, junk, baby stuff, antiques, dolls, office supplies, stationary -- nothing was too small or too awful to be at the sale.

After eating fresh strawberries we walked back to the car. The fair was about to start, and we didn't want to be late. The winding road made us wish we hadn't eaten those great-tasting strawberries, but just when we were thinking we might not make it all the way to Great Bentley, we rounded a death-defying curve, and right in the middle of the road stood a huge field with a big white tent. The sign announced we had arrived in Great Bentley. (There's a Little Bentley, too, but I can't see how it could be much smaller.)

The man talking over the public address system was saying something about ferret races. So we quickly wandered over to a sign announcing the ferret-racing stand. At first I didn't understand why there would be a ferret racing association or even a ferret race.

The big, fat man behind the rope pointed to the long petitions in front of us and explained that ferrets are used to scurry down rabbit holes and chase the little rodents out into the open to be killed. He wanted all of us to bet on our favorite ferret before the race began. The money would be used to take care of these poor creatures that had retired from their rabbit hunting days. Cat was thrilled to pet one of the stinky things.

The admission charge to the big white tent was 25 pence, and inside was a smaller version of the kinds of things we would have at our U.S. county fairs. Just inside the entrance was a big table holding the cups and ribbons that were about to be awarded for the floral displays, jams, vegetables and fruit samples.

Smaller versions of the big white tent sat in a circle on the other side of the field. This is where local charities displayed items for sale and gave out literature about their programs. There was the Life Boat association that sends boats to rescue people who have trouble at sea. There were several animal rescue groups selling little items to raise money.

I bought a red bandanna for Tess, our neighbors' black retriever. Behind the huge tent was a large group of people holding a Scottish dancing exhibition. They were all dressed up in their kilts and plaids dancing the jig. It was a strange sight to see so many people looking so happy and sweating like crazy in what felt to me like a chilly English breeze.

My favorite part of the fair was the dog show. I never did figure out exactly how it worked, but from my seat it looked like whoever seemed to know the judge the best turned out to be the winner. There were some pretty ugly dogs in that show, but their owners sure were friendly with the judge.

Even if other folks seemed to feel warm, I could feel the breeze grow colder and colder as the afternoon wore on. After we saw all of the charity booths, the ferret races twice and the Scottish dancers through four jigs, we were ready to head back up the highway to Hadleigh.

As we drove home, the sun quickly disappeared for the day. The sky was full of different shades of blue and gray. I was thinking how going to the fair made me understand how much we rural Americans are like the rural Brits. I guess that's why this place feels like home.